Ramadan as a Malaysian experience

Ramadan, for Muslims, is about spiritual renewal. For the rest of us, especially our children, it can be a month of civic education – learning how to live together with grace.

RAMADAN arrives in Malaysia not with silence but with sound, smell and colour. The hum of bazaar stalls setting up before dusk, the clatter of pots in Muslim homes preparing for iftar and the sudden stillness when the azan signals the breaking of fast.

Even if you are not Muslim, it is impossible not to feel Ramadan here. It spills into our streets, our conversations, our WhatsApp groups and our kitchens.

This year, Ramadan came with questions. My 11-year-old son has reached that age where curiosity is no longer fleeting. He wants explanations, not just answers. “Why do Muslims fast?” he asked one evening, watching a neighbour carry trays of food across the corridor. “Isn’t it very hard? Don’t they get hungry in school?”

It would have been easy to give him a textbook response: faith, discipline and devotion. But Ramadan in Malaysia is more than theology; it is something lived and experienced in everyday life.

So I told him about empathy, about learning restraint and about remembering those who do not always have enough to eat. I told him how fasting teaches gratitude in a world where we often take abundance for granted.

Then he asked a more Malaysian question: “Can we go to the bazaar Ramadan again?”

For many non-Muslim children here, the bazaar is their first classroom on Malay-Muslim culture. It is where curiosity meets sensory overload – smoky satay, bubbling curries, neon-coloured drinks and trays of kuih so pretty they look like jewellery. For my son, it is part a cultural expedition and part-food safari.

We walked past rows of vendors calling out in Malay, Tamil, Mandarin and English: “Kuih, kuih!”, “Ayam golek!”, “Murtabak panas!”. A multilingual chorus that somehow only makes sense in this country. He pointed at everything. He wanted to know what tepung pelita was, why kuih lapis had so many layers and how air balang could be every colour except natural.

We bought dates, murtabak, ayam percik and a selection of kuih. Later, when we shared them at home, I explained how Muslims break their fast with dates, following tradition. He insisted on trying it “like them”, carefully chewing a date and declaring it “sweet but serious”.

These may seem like small moments but they matter. This is how children learn that faith is not something exotic or distant; it is lived by the people next door – classmates, teachers and friends.

Growing up Malaysian means growing up in this constant, gentle negotiation with difference. As a child, I absorbed it without thinking: Deepavali lights beside Hari Raya decorations, Chinese New Year open houses following Christmas parties. Only as an adult have I come to realise how rare this is globally – and how fragile.

I try to teach my son that curiosity is good but respect is essential. We talked about why Muslim friends may be tired during fasting, why we shouldn’t eat in front of someone fasting out of courtesy and why “Happy Ramadan” or “Selamat Berpuasa” is more than just politeness; it is recognition.

He is learning that Malaysia’s diversity is not just about festivals and food but about manners, empathy and shared space.

Ramadan also reveals something beautiful about Malaysians: generosity. Even as prices rise and everyone complains about the cost of living, people still give.

Mosques prepare free meals, neighbours exchange dishes and offices organise buka puasa gatherings, where non-Muslims are invited not as outsiders but as part of the community.

My son notices this. “Why do they give food to everyone?” he asked. “Because sharing is part of the faith,” I said. “And because in Malaysia, sharing has become part of who we are.”

But I worry. In recent years, our public conversations about race and religion have become sharper, louder and sometimes uglier. Politicians weaponise identity and social media rewards outrage. Children, who are absorbing everything, may start to see difference as division. That is why moments like Ramadan matter. They are living lessons in coexistence.

When my son sees Muslim friends fasting, Malay neighbours inviting Indian and Chinese families to iftar, Indian aunties buying kuih from Malay vendors and Chinese uncles queuing for murtabak, he learns that unity is not a slogan; it is ordinary people showing up for each other in small ways.

Food in Malaysia is our soft diplomacy; it crosses boundaries where speeches cannot. A shared plate of nasi briyani can dismantle suspicion faster than a policy paper.

I tell him that respecting Ramadan does not mean pretending to be Muslim; it means recognising that this month is sacred to millions of Malaysians and that their rituals are part of our national rhythm. Just as Thaipusam, Wesak and Christmas shape the Malaysian calendar, Ramadan shapes our evenings, our traffic, our TV schedules and our cravings. It is all Malaysian.

Perhaps the most powerful lesson is this: diversity is not taught through slogans in textbooks; it is taught through lived experiences – through the smell of grilled chicken at dusk, through questions asked in curiosity and through dates shared at a dining table.

As a mother, I realise that teaching my children about Malaysia’s pluralism is not about grand lectures; it is about walking through a bazaar, explaining a tradition, showing kindness and modelling respect.

Ramadan, for Muslims, is about spiritual renewal. For the rest of us, especially our children, it can be a month of civic education – learning how to live together with grace.

In a world increasingly polarised, Malaysia’s version of Ramadan offers a quiet counter-narrative: that different beliefs can coexist in the same streets, the same schools and the same kitchens. That curiosity can lead to understanding, and understanding to unity.

My son still has many questions. He will ask more next year and the year after. And I hope he grows up in a Malaysia where those questions are met with openness, not fear – where Ramadan continues to be not just a Muslim month but a Malaysian experience.

Because if there is one thing Ramadan teaches all of us here, it is this: we are many but we are also together.

Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor at theSun.

Comments: letters@thesundaily.com

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